


Diction and Rhetoric

by aunt_zelda



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Begging, Consensual Non-Consent, Dirty Talk, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, First Time Topping, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, Leather Kink, Light Bondage, Masturbation, Roleplay, Teacher-Student Relationship, Threats of Violence, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 16:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30024882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: Wilde is invited to privately tutor one of Eldarion's secret projects. One of the lessons takes an unexpected turn when she pulls a knife on him.
Relationships: Sasha Racket/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	Diction and Rhetoric

**Author's Note:**

> *handwave* timelines are weird but Sasha's 18+ in this fic.
> 
> Many thanks to the Rome server for inspiration and cheering me along.

It’s convenient for Wilde to pass himself off as a tutor from time to time. Tutors, like governesses, are in a position located halfway between the servant class and the nobility. That enables him to converse with both and gather secrets from all. Music, speech, languages, and even some minor magical tutelage, are all skills he readily teaches to a variety of upper class clients. 

This job is an unusual one. Eldarion is up to something, a pet project she’s kept at one of her town houses. Wilde is invited in after being sworn into secrecy. 

He understands why when he sees the girl: dark hair, wiry frame, sharp eyes. Wilde raises an eyebrow at Eldarion, who bristles at the implications he’s conveying. 

“No.” She says firmly, to his unsaid question, shaking her head. 

So, not her child after all. Strange. What is this girl to her then? Surely not a potential lover, Eldarion’s tastes run to fellow academics, not unpolished bits of grit fished out of a slum.

For all her poise and fine clothes, the girl has a vocabulary like a rogue down a back alley and snarls at him like a cat. Wilde has his work cut out for him. He’s meant to teach her diction, help coax enunciation from that foul mouth. 

“Good luck.” Eldarion says wryly, leaving the to their lessons. 

The lessons, such as they are, go poorly for a time. Sasha – no last name given, naturally – seems to think herself a prisoner in the town house. She tries to pick Wilde’s pocket, and when he catches her out, turns to more overt methods. She pleads, poorly. She cajoles, a bit more convincingly. Finally she shoves him, with rather more force than he’d expected of that slender body.

“If you’re going to act like a child, I’ll turn you over that desk and spank you like one.” Wilde threatens. 

Sasha fixes him with a glare that could strip paint. “Try it and I’ll kill you.” 

He believes her. He’s seen the hilt of that dagger down her shirt, seen the ready stance she takes when she’s challenged, seen the way her eyes track him, map out exits, note what could be used as an improvised weapon in the room. Who _is_ this creature Eldarion dredged up from the gutter? Where did she come from? Wilde is intrigued and, he’s only slightly troubled to realize, more than a bit enamored of her. 

“Very well. Let’s take this set again, from the top.” Wilde proffers the book to her. 

Sasha snatches it from his hand and reads the words aloud, voice shifting to a cadence more appropriate for a salon than a robbery. 

It’s a start. 

~*~

She can't deny he's handsome. He knows it too, dresses flash in silk waistcoats and well-tailored cuts of cloth. His clothes accentuate his body and Sasha is _looking_. 

Sasha never used to look at people like this before. On the streets, as a kid, she had to notice who was a toff and who wasn’t, who was part of which gang, and especially how to note a bobby coming round the bend so she could scarper fast enough. She’s been at Eldarion’s place for a while now, and she’s started to notice people in a different way. The seamstress who rattles off figures and numbers right out of her head. The cook’s assistant with the dexterous fingers chopping up vegetables for dinner. And now … her tutor, Wilde. 

He hasn’t got a care for his things. She’s taken his pocket watch over and over again, coins, even a pen or two, right out of his pocket. It’s thrilling in a way things at Eldarion’s haven’t been in the longest time, not since Eldarion took her clothes and gave her the choice of skirts or nothing to wear at all. 

Sasha hadn’t seen the point in her new clothes until Wilde started instructing her. He’ll touch her sometimes, shoulder, back of the neck, chin, teaching her how to stand and what to do to properly speak like a posh lady would. She can’t deny the heat that spreads through her when he leans over and does that. The fabric is thin enough in certain places she swears it’s like he’s touching what’s underneath. She’ll move, and the fabric will drag over her skin in a way that makes her feel like she’s being touched all over. 

One day it’s too much to bear. The lesson isn’t sticking in her brain. Her fingers itch for something to steal, her feet are restless, and Wilde’s wearing some ridiculously tight trousers that make Sasha think he must have been sewn into them this morning. 

“Sasha?” Wilde’s stern voice cuts through her musing. “Pay attention.”

Sasha flinches at the order. That’s what this is, another of Eldarion’s many tests, this strange game she’s playing with Sasha. Sasha is so very tired of being poked and prodded along on a path where Eldarion won’t tell her what lies ahead. 

“No.”

The word falls from her mouth unbidden. She said it a lot early on, when Eldarion first brought her here. Over and over, screaming, pleading, crying, whimpering … not that it did Sasha any good. 

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, mate,” Sasha slips into her own voice, her real voice, letting that posh mask slide off like scum on the surface of a river. “ _No._ I’m done with this for today.”

“That’s not up to you.”

“The fuck it ain’t!” She tosses the book across the room. 

He stares at her in shock. His lips press together in a thin line. He’s about to lay into her, tell her she’s better than this, tell her how she could rise beyond her station in life, how she owes it to herself to improve and change. 

Sasha reaches up and yanks his cravat. It unravels into a long scarf. She twists it in her hands and then knocks Wilde into his chair. Before he can gather himself, she has his wrists behind him and is tying them through the slots in the chair back. 

“I’m tired of hearing what a wretch I am, how I could be a proper lady if only I tried. I’m tired of trying to be something I’m not.” She straddles him, grabbing him by the hair, savoring his sharp intake of breath that could be pain if she tugs harder. 

He stares at her in absolute shock, eyes wide, arms twisting and straining at the cloth bindings. 

Sasha draws the knife from what Eldarion refers to as her “décolletage,” the spot where a bloke promised she’d “grow big tits someday” (a day she prays never comes.) It’s a good knife, she’ll give Eldarion that credit at least. She tips it under Wilde’s chin. 

“Finally shut you up, eh?” she grins. It should feel like winning. It … doesn’t. Not quite.

Then Wilde leans back, baring more of his throat to her. 

Sasha’s breath catches.

~*~

His mind is still reeling from what’s just happened. Sasha’s outburst isn’t all that surprising, she has them frequently, rankling at his tutelage, at Eldarion’s plans, at being kept in the dark. Currently she lacks patience, which is a virtue that will serve her well as soon as she learns it. 

What has Wilde so startled is that she’s managed to tie his hands and get him into a compromising position so quickly. He’s not startled that the process arouses him, he learned long ago that he was susceptible to such antics. 

The knife is a new one for him. He’s played with blunted blades before in a bedroom, never sharp ones. That, coupled with the growl in her tone, goes right to Wilde’s cock. She’s young, untrained, but still intimidating in her own right. This little deadly thing, dressed up in lace and layers of silk skirts, perched on him like a bird of prey, ready to _take_ him.

If she were older, he’d moan, and let her take charge fully here and now. But he has to check one thing first. Eldarion's not been exactly clear on how young her little project is and he’d hate to be that type of rake.

“Do you know what sort of game you're playing at?” he whispers. 

“Yeah.” Sasha licks her lower lip and he watches her tongue. “What, thought you were gonna be my first?” she snorts. “Want me to go _’oh my, sir, that great thing shan't fit inside me’_? You want a virgin you pay for a virgin.”

He barks a laugh at that, pleasantly surprised by the ease with which she’s turned to a bit of banter. 

Sasha shares in the laugh, and it makes her even more beautiful. The image of her, relaxed and happy in a way he hasn’t seen her once in this house, transforms her face. 

“I was just trying to be polite, dear,” he says, shrugging. 

She shifts on his lap a bit, holding onto his shoulders. “You play games like this often?” she asks, a bit softly, hesitantly. 

Ah, so he’s not her first, but he’s almost certainly the first where she's had more of a say in how things are done.

“With the right person,” he says, as kindly as he can without letting pity into his voice. He knows that pity would get her to recoil from him, and he doesn't want that. He wants her closer. Much, much closer. 

She bites her lip and clambers off of his lap. 

He holds back a groan with extreme difficultly. “Did you have any ideas, about the premise of this scene of ours?” he prompts. 

Sasha muses on that for a moment. “What if I ... I come in, right, and find you all trussed up like this? And here's me with my knife.” Her grip on the knife tightens. 

He gulps. “Yes, I like this sound of that.”

“And ... no matter what ... I'll just take what I want.” She sounds like she’s convincing herself more than him, pacing slightly.

“So long as what you want is me? Then yes, absolutely.”

She snorts again but nods. “Right now, yeah. Not that you need telling, handsome piece like you.”

He preens, as best he can, tied up.

"What if I go too far though? And you don't like it?" her face creases with worry for a moment.

"I can do this," he flicks his fingers up and sparks fill the air, multicolored and perfectly distracting.

"Right, that's good," she agrees. 

"What if you need to stop?" 

"I'll just ... stop." She looks at him like he's slow on the uptake.

"Do you want a word, a signal, in case you need to stop things?" he offers.

She shrugs. 

He is _trying_ to be responsible, but the little minx was bouncing on his lap not a minute ago and he's very much enjoying being tied up by her. He knows Eldarion is off on an errand, but she won’t be gone indefinitely. There isn’t time to be as careful as he could be. He has to trust that she knows what she’s asking for, and will stop if she doesn’t enjoy herself. 

"Very well. Shall I shut my eyes?" he offers. "So you can sneak up on me?" 

"If it makes you feel better." She grins, sharp and sweet all at once.

Wilde closes his eyes and obediently waits. 

He doesn't hear the door. He doesn't hear her approaching. He doesn’t realize she’s back until he feels the flick of metal under his chin, fingers in his hair pulling his head back, baring his neck to her blade. 

"Hush," she hisses, voice falling back into that Other London grit and grime. "Blink twice if you're alone.”

His eyes snap open and he looks up into her scowling face. She's pulled her hair back, and she's got leather riding gloves on now. Wilde blinks twice, staring up at her pleadingly.

"Lucky me," she smirks, glancing around the room. "Fine place you got here. Left wide open for me." 

“Please –" he starts, gasping as she tugs harder on his hair and the knife presses against his skin. “Don't …” 

"Don't what? Don't rob you blind? Don't take what I came here for? Don't take what you owe the likes of me?" she snarls a bit at the end.

"... please, don't hurt me ..." his eyes are watering now from the sting of her pulling on his hair. She’s good at this, for all she’s rough and untrained and new to these kinds of games.

She lets go of his hair and the knife flashes away. He leans forward, gasping as if she'd been choking him.

The slap is a surprise, and the backhand even more so. His head snaps to the side and he can feel the mark she's doubtless left on his skin.

"Don’t hurt you? Apologies, _sir_ , but that's something I very much intend to do." 

It's just a game, a silly game to get his cock hard and, he'd assume, her wet and squirming. But even so, that tone of voice, the pain simmering on his face, the fury in her eyes … fear curls in his belly. He’s been called all manner of things in this sort of context, but he’s never heard “sir” uttered with such obvious disgust and contempt.

Sasha raises up her right leg and slams her booted foot down on the chair, right between his knees. The toe of her boot grazes the outline of his cock, which is currently still pinioned by his tight trousers. 

"Now what's that you've got there?" she muses, tilting her head and peering down at the visible evidence of his arousal. "Think that'll distract me from the wealth in this fine house?" 

"No, no please ..." Wilde shakes his head even as he eagerly admires the boots she's wearing, the laces and the leather. He's gotten off against many a pair of boots over the years, rutted against a companion's foot and endured all manner of insults, and the memories surging make him harder.

She inches a little closer, maintaining her balance perfectly. "Tied yourself up hoping someone would find you, didn't you? You wanted to be ravished, didn’t you?" 

"No, no I didn't ..." Wilde shakes his head even as he tries to angle his hips and rub himself against her boot. 

"Mmm, shame. You're gonna get ravished whether you want it or not." She pushes her foot against his cock and he groans, trying to rut against her. It's not the best angle, he can't possibly come from this, but it feels so good, the drag and pressure is so tempting.

He wails when she pulls her foot away and stands firmly on the floor. 

"Can't have that," she mutters, more to herself than him. She reaches under her skirts and yanks her panties down, grabs his hair again and forces the fabric into his mouth. "Hush, I said!” 

He can taste her now. He knows she's wet already, from the fabric in his mouth. He’s not the only one affected by this game. 

She takes her knife out again, slices the buttons of his waistcoat off one by one. She collects the buttons in her hand and secrets them away. "These'll fetch a pretty penny, fine make, good metal," she muses, and then opens up the fabric to reveal his shirt underneath.

He wonders if she’ll carve her name into his chest, if that’s how he’ll finally learn her full name. She tugs his shirt open and runs a gloved hand over his skin, smirking as he flinches.

Then, mercifully, at long last, she does get to his trousers. She frees his cock, but doesn’t touch him more than she needs to. 

Those damn leather gloves of hers. He would beg if his mouth weren't stuffed already. Her hand, her foot again, anything, please, he wants whatever she’ll deign to give him … 

~*~

Sasha looks at him, disheveled and sweating. He obviously wants her. But he doesn’t want her in the leering way people have in the past. She doesn’t feel naked under his gaze, doesn’t feel vulnerable or unsafe or small. She feels … powerful.

Following her impulse, Sasha reaches up underneath her skirt and starts to tease herself. In the past she’s generally done this over the fabric of her underthings, but since those are stuffed into Wilde’s mouth at the moment she’s stroking the leather-gloved fingers over bare skin. She’s wet, slick and ready for touching, and she delights in the sensation. With her other hand she tugs at her own hair, smirking as she thinks of how Eldarion will hate her messing up the intricate curls. Someday she’s going to chop it all off with a knife, see how Eldarion likes her “best feature” then. 

No more thoughts of Eldarion. Not now, not here, with her stroking two fingers into herself and her scalp tingling as she yanks on her hair and Wilde looking at her like he’d give anything in the world to be doing that to her himself. 

She lets go of her hair for now and trails her gloved hand over her chest, under her blouse and over the firm outline of her corset. She can’t quite get at her nipples now, but maybe later she’ll unlace a bit. Maybe Wilde would put his mouth on them, give her a kiss on either side. 

With a sigh, Sasha brings her hand out from under her skirts. The leather on her glove is visibly wet and slick. 

Wilde groans. She can hear that even through the gag.

She straddles him. It’s time for more.

~*~

There's too much fabric in the way. Her skirts are heavy and layered, and Wilde damns Eldarion for dressing Sasha up like a doll and not the rake she could so clearly excel at if only Eldarion would let her. He aches to hold her, to wrap his arms around her and pull her closer, but his wrists are trapped and he wouldn’t dare break free from her knots. 

Then her thighs on his thighs, bare skin to skin. His cock is throbbing and he _wants_ her. He wants her so badly. When did this stop being a game? 

"You really want it?" she breathes. "You want me clenching around you? You want me to ride you like a stolen horse?"

He sobs (sobs? when did he start crying?) and nods desperately. Where in the hells did Eladarion find this girl, this vixen, this thief who's stolen all his good sense and propriety away? He’d ask, but she’s stolen his speech too. 

She eases onto his length slowly, torturously slowly, and he bites the fabric in his mouth to stop from yelling. He hasn't had someone go this slow in years, and he remembers blearily that she's still young, she might be struggling with the girth or the length or both ... and that only makes him more painfully aroused, the thought of her working herself onto him with determination, challenged by his cock and still pressing onwards. Her face _is_ set like when she studies a new problem, so maybe that’s the case after all. 

She breathes slowly, in and out, huffing and panting as she reaches the end, takes him to the hilt, and gasps at her triumph. 

They lock eyes, and he tries to smile around the gag. She looks shocked and staggered but above all proud of herself. For taking something so large or for pinning him in place, he’s not sure, maybe both? It's endearing to see her proud, almost smug. Especially so when she's smug at having fucked herself all the way onto his cock.

Then she shifts and she gets her knife out again. She holds it to his throat and starts to ride him.

He tries not to move. He tries to submit to her, to let her set the pace, but she's so _slow_ and he's only human. His cock his throbbing with urgency, and his hips cant a few times and her knife scrapes along his skin. Wilde definitely feels the sting of a cut, shallow but still he knows it'll bleed a lot there, he's had shaving accidents before, that doesn't deter her. In fact it seems to spur her on, make her go faster. She’s panting openly now. She grips his shoulder with one hand so hard he's sure to have bruises later.

He's close, but Sasha comes first. She seems startled by the thing, eyes going wide and dark and her back going rigid. She spasms around him and pitches forward, leaning on his shoulder, gasping and moaning as her body shivers. If he could live in this moment he would gladly do so.

She slides off of him and staggers to her feet, knees usually wobbly. He marvels that he's never seen her unsteady before.

He’s still hard, painfully so, but he isn’t the sort of man to make that someone else’s problem if they aren’t eager to do so. Wilde tugs at the bindings on his wrists again but they’re holding firm. 

Sasha collects herself and then looks down at him. Her eyes fixate on his still hard cock. 

“Fine, let me hear you.” She pulls the sodden fabric from his mouth and pockets it.

He gasps and works his tongue frantically. 

While he’s still reeling, she reaches down, leather gloves sliding over his skin. With a few quick movements he's coming in her grasp. 

Wilde makes some truly obscene noises. Sasha listens attentively, far more attentively he suspects than she has to any of his lessons before. 

~*~

Sasha cuts the cloth binding Wilde’s wrists. She reluctantly removes the leather gloves and sets them side, then sets to redoing her hair into some manner of arrangement Eldarion will find acceptable. There are pins and twists and she hates it. Makes her feel clumsy and stupid and helpless. 

“May I?” Wilde offers, coming up behind her, not too close enough to be threatening. 

Usually she’d rankle at that sort of an offer. But she did just bring him off and he seems happy with her. Might as well make further use of him. 

That’s it. It’s not that she likes the feeling of his fingers in her hair, tugging and braiding and the faintest of scratches. That’s what she tells herself at least. 

“Eldarion will be back soon,” Sasha mutters, lip curling. 

“Yes. Shall we return to the lesson for the day?” Wilde offers, though his heart clearly isn’t in it. He tries and fails to button his waistcoat, sans buttons it hangs open in a state of dishevelment. 

“I think I’ve learned plenty from you today, Mr. Wilde.” Sasha smiles in what she hopes is a bit of a rakish way. 

“I rather hope you have.” Wilde coughs delicately and gathers up his books. 

She doesn’t beg him to take her with him. She doesn’t cry. 

She hears the door click, and nods to herself. Then she gathers up the gloves and the sodden undergarments to burn, so Eldarion won’t find the evidence of today’s private tutoring. 

Sasha keeps the buttons. Secreted away in her room under a floorboard, with a knife Eldarion doesn’t know about, the buttons are kept wrapped up safe for when Sasha is ready to run.


End file.
